


English summer rain seems to last for ages

by Naicele



Series: Similarities attract [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, John is a bit slow on the ball, M/M, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: "It wasn’t until he saw him standing in full sunlight that he recognised him."John runs into an old army acquaintance, they have a past.Stand alone story, but is a "many years later" sort of thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Placebo song.

It wasn’t until he saw him standing in full sunlight that he recognised him.

He should have guessed before, really. The way he kept casting him sideways glances and the way his eyebrows had shot up the first time they met. He had simply contributed it to the, let’s call them ‘special circumstances,’ of how they met.

When he finally saw him and knew who he was it was days later and at a very different crime scene.

The sunlight had come streaming in through a dirty window pane, yellow and slightly broken up due to old imperfections in the glass. The man had been standing perfectly still, seemingly unaware that he was being observed as it washed over him.  It lit up every crack and imperfection, from the troubled wrinkle between his eyes to a single strand of hair at the back of his neck slightly longer than the rest; where the trimmer must have missed it.

He was now Chief Inspector Lestrade, distinguished law enforcer with years of experience behind him which had made grey appear in his hair and crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He had rubbed his chin absently while listening to a uniformed copper.

It hit John as a fist to his stomach, I know that man, he thought.

At that moment the Inspector turned around as if he could feel John’s gaze at him, their eyes met for the briefest second and John could see that Lestrade knew he had recognised him. Lestrade’s mouth twitched in a half smile and he winked at him.

John tore his eyes away so fast his neck twanged. He walked briskly as if he had a pressing purpose elsewhere. He found Sherlock in the next room and then did not leave his new found friend’s side for the rest of the visit, nor did he exchange a single word with the Inspector himself.

He didn’t know why he did that. He could just have admitted he recognised him. He met old army friends all the time, people who had been stationed with him or treated by him, some he recognised and some he didn’t. It would have been OK.

But he hadn’t.

The facts, he supposed were these: once upon a time in a faraway country John Watson the military doctor had a brief, let’s call it ‘encounter’ with a fellow soldier. This specific soldier at this specific encounter had been young and had a smile like the sun. John had long since forgotten his name; if he had ever known it.

They had met, seen, and touched. The soldier and his platoon had only been passing through, going somewhere from somewhere that nobody who counted could remember any more.

All this was years ago of course, so long that they were both different men, with grey in their hair and wrinkles in the corners of their eyes.

 

-

 

The next time they meet is in the Chief Inspector’s office. It is crowded and John arrives late, slinking in at the back. He leans against the white wall and tries to stay invisible. Sherlock is audibly arguing with an officer about some finer point of criminal investigation, something that really should be up to the police; John can’t help but smile.

Lestrade is looking like he wishes he had a cold bucket of water to throw at the combatants, but he seems to be weathering it out.

John sips the coffee he grabbed from the machine out in the hallway and absently wonders if there are secret laws against good coffee in an office building like this. Maybe the coffee has to be horrible to discourage excessive breaks or people gathering around the coffee machine. He studies Lestrade as he thinks about coffee and extrinsic motivations, hot beverages and office romances.

Lestrade belongs behind his cluttered desk. The years has given him a solidity, not a physical one, he is still neither tall nor broad. But there is a certainty in how he holds himself, like he is right where he wants to be, where he should be.

Not that John can’t see the tell-tale sign of exhaustion in the dark circles under his eyes; or the heaps of unfinished paper work on his desk. Yet he still looks at home, content.

He almost spills his coffee as Lestrade turns to look at him. Eyes sharp as steel. That gaze must have sent criminal and their ilk running in fear over the years, now it feels like he is peeling John apart at the seams; exposing his tarnished insides.

His stomach does a slow somersault as their eyes meet. The room might be full, yet John feels like they are the only ones there. The rest just fades out, even the loud argument that has captured everyone’s attention.

John raises his coffee cup in a silent toast, trying to encompass both Lestrade and the room itself. He wants to congratulate him, to say well done. You wanted to make a difference, now here you are.

Then he winks at him. He wants to make up for last time, he hadn’t been prepared.

Lestrade brightens and a tension John hadn’t even noticed leaves his features. Lestrade smiles and tries to hide it behind a hand. He breaks eye contact and John can see him schooling his features back to the hardened chief inspector, but the laugh is still glittering in his eyes.

John turns back to follow the rest of the argument. Sherlock is clearly wining; the officer has been reduced to simmering anger and undignified monosyllables.

He can feel his cheeks heating in a way that he can’t remember when they did last.

 

\- 

 

The first time they talk, just the two of them, is a week or two later in a dingy pub named the Bluebell. A favourite hang-out for Scotland Yard bobbies, located just around the block from the offices.

They are celebrating a case closed, a murderer behind bars.

Sherlock had not so politely turned the invitation down, instead urging John to go. All so that he could, no doubt, perform some dangerous or foul smelling experiment at the flat without John there to stop him.

Probably it will be both, dangerous and smelling, John thinks as he chews his lower lip.

The others are just abandoning their table for a game of darts, leaving John alone. Dart has never been for him. Lestrade comes back from the bar and turns down the invitation as well. He has two pints in his hand. As he sits down opposite John the rest of the group grab their glasses and ambles over to the back of the pub.

Then there are only the two of them left at the table.

John takes the glass Lestrade pushes over to him and mumbles, “Cheers”.

They drink in silence for a while as John tries to come up with something to say. The silence is not uncomfortable though, far from it.

There is a sharp background smell of burning from the ancient coal fire still operating in the pub. Thick tendrils of smoke are gathering under the blackened oak beams in the roof. The lights glints of the brass ornaments adorning the walls and a gentle background susurrus fills the air.

 “You quit in the end then?” Lestrade says eventually, “The military I mean.”

“Retired”, John answers briefly.

 “Wounded?”

“Yeah,” John replies, “Fine now though.” He takes a long drink from his glass. The wounds are indeed healing. Maybe one day, all that will be left is scar tissue.

“It was time. I needed to do something different.” He adds.

“Yeah.” A pause, “Working with Sherlock. I guess the military wasn’t dangerous enough for you anymore,” Lestrade jokes.

John smiles and says, “I guess not.”

It feels easy, like no time has passed at all. They fall silent again, drinking their beers and watching the rest of Lestrade’s team abuse the dart board.

Eventually Lestrade says, quiet this time and eyes not meeting John’s, “It meant a lot to me at the time.”

John looks at his profile and doesn’t reply, not sure what to say.

 “I just wanted you to know that,” Lestrade adds after a quiet beat.

He gets up, shaking his shoulders as if throwing off a blanket. He eyes comes to rest somewhere over John’s head as he says, “Think I might join the game after all.”

John nods and mumbles something about it being time to make sure that Sherlock is not burning down the flat.

As John leaves he thinks he should have said something. But Lestrade had taken him by surprise. Again.

 

-

 

It is a few days later and John is drunk. His legs feel rubbery and his head is buzzing. It is a pleasurable feeling, one he enjoys once in a while. That sense of muting down, things not mattering as much and the here and now gaining in clarity.

His glass is almost empty, just a film of amber liquid and foam in the bottom. The pub is equally deserted, a few lonely strays sitting by their respective tables finishing up their drinks in silence.

As John leaves his empty glass and ambles out the door, he turns the collar up on his waxed cotton jacket, a feeble attempt to protect himself against the rain.

It is pouring down, positively raining cats and dogs.

He starts walking, following a half formed idea at the back of his mind. He lets it stay there, the alcohol dulling the need to formulate it more clearly. He slugs through puddles and streams of water as rain pounds down on him. It is in the middle of summer and the rain almost feels warm across his face.

Yellow neon lights reflect in the rain and bounce of eternally into the darkened streets.

It is longer than he had thought and he is thoroughly soaked as he arrives. Once there he doesn’t hesitate before ringing the doorbell to an upstairs flat.

He can still feel the beer like a warm embrace in his stomach, but his skin is quickly cooling in the downpour. As he stands there waiting for a reply that does not come he can feel himself slowly sobering up.

He holds a finger over the bell, should he ring again, or should he just take a cab home and forget about it?

He turns around to leave, hesitantly pocketing his hand before he can ring again, doubt now replacing the relaxed glow of alcohol.

“John?”

He turns around and there he is, equally soaked in the rain, short, dark hair plastered across his scalp.

John raised a hand in greeting, “Blimey weather, ain’t it?” he says.

Lestrade laughs silently, mouth open in a wide grin and a twinkle in his eyes. He must have been running, tight sports clothes and trainers. He looks as wet as John, but warm, a healthy glow on his cheeks.

“Come on in, before we both drown.” He pulls out a key and lets himself in. Not checking if John follows or not up the narrow stairwell.

 

His flat is functional yet clearly a home, not only a place to sleep. The hall gives way instantly to an open kitchen living room, small but well-planned.

Lestrade walks straight in, toing of his shoes by the door and hanging his keys on a nail. He doesn’t turn the lights on, but a street light outside the window shines in through the window.

John stands a bit hesitantly just inside the door, trying to decide what to do. The idea that got him here, seems to have been washed away by the rain.

Lestrade shrugs off his shell suit jacket exposing a dark slim runner’s shirt and trousers underneath. It hugs his torso in a way that leaves very little to the imagination.

He still looks in great shape, just like John remembers.

He must have been silent for too long because Lestrade leans back against the kitchen counter, hands grasping the edge to his sides and body opening up.

John stays silent, he has no real words for all the things he has thought since he recognised the man, but he sort of figures Lestrade will get him. He seems to have, so far.

John takes his shoes off and lets his wet jacket fall in a pile in the hallway as he moves to stand just inside the kitchen.

“Shall I assume the visit is private and not business then?” Lestrade says and the silent laughter is back in his voice. He is dripping water on the carpet, darker patches forming underneath him.

John feels hungry in way that he had been afraid he never would again.

Greg slowly pulls his shirt off over his head, the fabric sticks to his wet skin.

John takes the last few steps up to him and puts his cold hands on Greg’s torso. He bends down instantly to suck at a collarbone; he can taste salt and summer rain.

Greg throws his head back to allow him access as he licks and sucks his was up along his neck, eliciting small, fast breaths.

“Took you long enough,” Greg whispers so low that John is not sure he is meant to hear it. Instead of answering he pushes their bodies flush and seeks out his lips. Their mouths clash in a wet kiss, Greg opens for his probing tongue.

The kiss is deep and filthy and everything John could have hoped for.

Greg finally adds his hands to the mix. He puts them both on John, sliding greedily up under his shirt and griping his lower back tight, edging him impossibly closer.

“Mm, should have made it over sooner if I knew it was going be like this,” John mumbles as Greg rolls his hips in this long sinuous movement.

“Yeah,” Greg answers him as he mouths a wet trail along John’s jaw, “You should have”

 

It is not long before they have moved to the bed, clothes discarded on their way. They have kissed for what feels like hours and John has helped Greg work himself open, one finger at a time.

John feels like he might explode if he has to wait any longer and he rolls a condom on with shaking fingers. Greg looks hungrily on as he throws the discarded wrapper on the floor.

He is about to sink back down when Greg interrupts him, “Wait, just let me..” Greg says and turns around as he pushes up on all four.

John moves up close behind. He runs his hands appreciatively up the play of muscle up and down Greg’s back, his thighs. Greg strains back towards him, ass up on display.

John is so turned on he can barely breathe.

“Fuck, just do it, sometimes today,” Greg sounds hoarse and breathless and John reaches forward, slots his hands arounds his hips and puts his dick up against Greg’s ass. Then he pushes in, slowly, one inch at a time.

It feels like a year before he is buried to the hilt, Greg hot and tight around him. He has to lean down, placing his head on the other man’s shoulder and breath; trying to stop himself from coming straight away.

He doesn’t know when last he had to hold himself back, the last time sex had felt like this; all consuming.

He thinks of rugby and rain as Greg breathes harshly beneath him, hips trying to move, but held still under John’s weight.

“Move, just move,” he says, a broken “please” tagged on the end.

John nods lazily against his shoulder and kisses his way along the spine as he lifts himself up. He experimentally pulls out half-way and pushes back in, and feels fantastic.

He continues slowly at first, pulling all the way out before pushing in again. It’s hot and tight and John feels out of mind in the best kind of way.

Greg’s head falls down on his forearms resting on the bed, trying to keep still as John begins to pound him in earnest. The room is filled with the sound of heavy breathing and flesh moving against flesh.

He is not going to last, but he wants Greg to come first so he folds down over his back and reaches one hand around him. He finds his dick hard and leaking.

He starts to stroke him in time with the rhythmic movement of his hips.

Greg comes with a strangled moan, hot lines of white hitting the bed, his chest, and underside of his jaw. John strokes him through it, slowly easing his hold for every stroke. Once he can feel his heart calming down he takes a steady grip on Greg’s hips, as he holds on for a few last, frantic thrusts before he is coming so hard it feels like his teeth are about to crumble.

He stays like he his, gathering his broken wits, until he feels Greg stirring under him. He pulls out gently, two fingers gripping the base of the condom.

Greg flops over on his back, seemingly not caring that he is lying in his own come. John leans back on his hunches, rubbing a hand across his hair, feeling the sweat slowly cooling.

“Well, that was nice,” Greg says, a low rumbling laugh followed it.

“Yeah,” John concedes, smiling to soften it.

Greg looks sleepy and content, he scratches absently at the line of hair connecting his navel with his groin and laughs again as his fingers comes away sticky.

 

-

 

In the end Greg didn’t ask him to stay, but that was ok. There was time, and John could take it one step at a time.

As he stepped outside the sun was on its way up, an orange haze covering the city.

It had stopped raining.


End file.
